


An Apple A Day Will Keep Sammy Away

by Jamaican Princess (Rocquellan)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:39:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocquellan/pseuds/Jamaican%20Princess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam sees a pimple on Dean, and it has so many other implications he can't do better than to pester his brother about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Apple A Day Will Keep Sammy Away

**Author's Note:**

> Still trying to get into the groove of writing these guys. It's not an easy task.

It didn’t take long for Sam to realize that one of his worst fears was coming true. Sure, he and Dean were very active, active enough to warrant a few sprains and breaks and concussions sometimes, but this was worse!

Dean had a _pimple_. A pustule, to be exact, right on his forehead. A white bump inside a red circumference of irritated flesh.

Sam couldn’t stop staring at it. One minute Dean was fine -as fine as a poltergeist throwing your ass across the room the night before could be- and the next he’s sitting across from his brother in their motel room, looking at a damn pimple!

Pimples were lesser signs of bigger problems like high cholesterol or clogged arteries or psoriasis. Too much double bacon cheeseburgers, pies and chilli fries and no vegetables day in and day out and Sam knew; his brother was unhealthy. He felt agitated and frayed in a way to see signs that maybe one day soon Dean might collapse from heart problems. Heart problems that didn’t stem from ghosts or witches with invisible claws. He wanted his brother to one day go down like a tried and true hero; killing monsters, hunting things, not keeling over the impala’s steering wheel from a clogged artery or strokes.

Sam knew Dean didn’t take to heart about subject matters like these, like he had more important things to worry about than making sure all his internal organs were functioning effectively. But he would make sure his brother saw the error of his ways. It was just as important, if not more, as making sure they rid the country of as much evil as possible.

...

Dean was reading the local obituary from a day old newspaper on his bed in their motel room, looking out for a possible case when the tension in the room turned up exponentially. For once, he was glad for the peace and quiet, no jabbering from Sam. But the silence was deafening and to be honest, it was really pissing him off that he couldn’t get Sam to shut up even when he was quiet. Some parts of his body hurt from the unfriendly neighborhood poltergeist they tangled with the night before and he would really love to just kick back and read up on dead people, but Sam was angsting, and that meant dead people were the least of his problems. With a sigh, he put the paper down and looked up at his brother, who had that tell tale crinkle in his forehead and his face scrunched in something akin to worry. His own forehead itched in the background, but he chalked it up to one of the black and blue bruises that canvassed various parts of his face. And other places.

“Sam...”

“Eat a salad with dinner later, just this once,” Sam blurted suddenly.

Dean’s brows furrowed in concentrated worry. “I don’t _do_ salads, Sammy. I’m not a cow.”

Sam’s eyebrows furrowed. “Dean, cows eat grass.”

“Yup,” Dean answered while standing. “Grass, vegetables, they’re all _green_ , Sam.”

Sam rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “Well, it’s healthy and right now you need something to balance your macronutrients and fat ratio, Dean.”

Dean scratched the phantom itch on his forehead, throwing his legs over the side of the bed to stand, asking in a befuddled voice, “What? I’m not fat.” He looked down at himself self consciously. 

“There!” Sam affronted, pointing an accusing finger at Dean’s head, who stopped abruptly at Sam’s outburst. “And I didn’t say you were fat.”

“What the hell is your problem, Sammy?” Dean asked, stretching his back with his hands over his head to work out the kinks. Thanks to his injuries, he’d spent an unnatural amount of time in bed. Time that guaranteed him no ass because Sam wasn’t touching him with so much bruises covering his body. Not until he was better, no matter how much he told him he was fine.

Sam stood, striding over to his brother and pointing to his own face, saying, “You have a pimple, Dean, right here.” 

“What?” Dean asked. It was like Sam was talking in codes half the time. He ran his fingers over his forehead and felt it. The itch. A pimple. Who cared? “Oh.”

“Oh?” Sam’s voice was pinched, his disposition exasperated. “Dean, you have a pimple, you never get pimples. Don’t you think that means you’re unhealthy?”

Dean was heading towards the kitchen for a beer, but he stopped short and looked at Sam like he’d suddenly grown another head. “Unhealthy? Sam, it’s just a pimple, not a nuclear reactor.”

“Dean, a pimple means too much fat in your skin, and in your diet and that leads to heart attack and gastric disease and maybe colon cancer or high cholesterol,” Sam rambled on, listing off all the ways things could go wrong with his brother’s body on his fingers.

“Yeah, yeah, Sammy, shut the hell up. I’ve been eating like this all m’ life and I’ve never had a problem. You’re the one that gets gassy whenever you eat mexican food. “ Dean felt smug, that was a one up on Sam.

“How is me being gassy even remotely relevant to this conversation?” Sam griped, hating Dean for throwing his concern back in his face. Dean hardly ever looked after himself properly and Sam felt it was his duty to do it for him, to point out the not-so-obvious to his brother. “I know we’re active and you cant actually _see_ your insides but I’m sure it’s not a pretty sight right now.”

Dean stopped in his tracks, laughed mirthlessly and turned to glare at his brother. “Actually, _you’re_ not a pretty sight right now, Sam. How about we go down to the diner down the block and we get ourselves a one pounder and a couple slices of pie, huh?”

“No, Dean. _No_. I’m not gonna have you keeling over from this. No burger, fries or pie for you.”

Dean grabbed his jacket, making a beeline for the front door and throwing over his shoulder, “Make me, bitch.”

Sam grabbed his own, shoved his foot into his shoes and they made a match of sprinting for the door. “I will, jerk!”


End file.
